


Heated

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Fever, Hair Brushing, Hair Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-10 17:11:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11131140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'You can’t be healthy forever,' Laxus says, and reaches out to slide his fingers under the weight of Freed’s hair and push it back from the line of the other’s neck. 'It was going to happen sometime.'" Laxus finds taking care of a sick Freed more rewarding than he expected.





	Heated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



“I’m sorry,” Freed mumbles from the far side of the bed, where his face is pressed down against the pillow so Laxus can see neither his expression nor the feverish flush staining red across his cheekbones. “I’ll get better soon.”

Laxus huffs, more frustrated with Freed’s words than the fact of his lingering fever. “You don’t need to keep apologizing,” he reminds the other for far from the first time. “It’s not like you can help getting sick.”

“I did before,” Freed says, the words so muffled by the sheets under him that Laxus can barely hear them at all. “I haven’t been sick for years before now.”

“You can’t be healthy forever,” Laxus says, and reaches out to slide his fingers under the weight of Freed’s hair and push it back from the line of the other’s neck. “It was going to happen sometime.”

“Mm,” Freed hums against the sheets, sounding simultaneously unconvinced and unwilling to put words to more protest. “I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

Laxus rolls his eyes; this isn’t the first time he’s heard this before either. “You’re not,” he says, rejecting the idea as directly as he knows how as he collects Freed’s hair in his fingers to lift it up off the sweat-slick back of the other’s neck. “I keep telling you, I don’t mind taking care of you.”

“If you say so,” Freed says, still sounding deeply unconvinced but nonetheless capitulating to the direct force of Laxus’s statement. He turns his head down against the sheets to shift the back of his neck up and away from the catch of the blankets beneath him, sighing what sounds like relief against the bed. “That feels good.”

“I bet,” Laxus agrees, and pulls Freed’s hair farther to the side to urge it away from that feverish-flushed skin. When he presses his free hand to the nape of Freed’s neck the other shudders an exhale, his whole body relaxing down against the bed under him like Laxus is forcing him into passivity just by his touch. Laxus can feel the line of Freed’s spine under his palm, the edge of vertebrae running up the delicate curve of the other’s neck; and heat, radiating out like an open flame from the skin against his. He frowns and slides his hand up higher to fit his fingers along the edge of Freed’s hairline. “You’re burning up.”

“Yes,” Freed says, but he sounds distracted; when he shifts it’s to tip his shoulders up, to arch into the weight of Laxus’s hand against him as he gusts an exhale against the pillow. “That feels good.”

“Yeah,” Laxus says. “I’m probably cold, compared to you.” He presses his palm closer against Freed’s neck, bracing the other still as he idly wills the heat of the other’s body to seep into his own. His other hand is still tangled into the weight of Freed’s hair, with the green strands caught around his fingers and wrist like they’re trying to wind themselves into a hold on him; Laxus stares at them, his attention holding to the weight of the locks around his hand as he slides his fingers through the brilliant color. Freed’s hair is a mess, damp with sweat and twisted into the knots of the last few days spent almost entirely in bed; Laxus considers it as he shifts his hand, turning an idea over in the back of his mind as he shifts his palm against Freed’s skin to grant some relief to the other’s fever.

“Don’t move,” he says at last, making the words an order; and he’s moving away, drawing his hands free at the same time he shifts towards the edge of the bed. Freed moves against the pillows, raising his head and turning to blink hazily at Laxus moving, but Laxus doesn’t hesitate, even when Freed says “Laxus?” in a lost tone.

“I’ll be back,” Laxus says, and then he’s moving towards the hall, letting himself out of the bedroom without bothering to shut the door behind him. He’s only going to be gone a moment, after all, and he knows what he’s looking for in the bathroom. There’s more to choose from than he expected -- brushes and combs and a whole variety of tools he can’t imagine the use for -- but in the end he satisfies himself selecting one of the brushes at random, one he thinks he can vaguely recall seeing Freed use during some portion of the time the other usually spends getting ready in the morning, and then he returns to the bedroom. Freed is still in bed, although he’s worked himself into a sitting position while Laxus was gone and is sitting blinking confusion at the still-open door. His face is as flushed as Laxus expected it to be, his eyes hazy and his hair tangling around his face; his pajama shirt is pulled sideways on his shoulders, the neckline dipping over his collarbone like it’s trying to show off the feverish pink clinging to the pale skin there.

“Turn around,” Laxus says as he comes into the room and pushes the door shut behind him again. “I’m going to brush your hair.”

Freed blinks at him. “What?”

“Turn,” Laxus says again, and lifts his hand to gesture the ordered motion as he steps in towards the bed. “Your hair is a mess.”

Freed lifts a hand to touch the tangled weight around his face. “I’m sorry, I can straighten myself up.”

“That isn’t what I said,” Laxus tells him. “You’re sick. It’s not comfortable to have your hair tangled like that, is it?” He leans in to kneel at the edge of the bed before sliding in across the distance to Freed sitting up on the other side. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

Freed stares at Laxus. His cheeks are going darker in color than the fever can account for; Laxus can see the other’s gaze slide across his face and drop to hold to his mouth for a heartbeat of time before Freed ducks his head like he’s trying to hide. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Did I ask if I had to?” Laxus wants to know. “Turn around.” Freed turns against the bed, shifting in surrender to Laxus’s order; and Laxus slides in closer over the blankets, letting the sheets tangle around his knees as he draws in close enough to spread his legs wide around Freed’s hips and reach out to draw the other’s hair in towards him. There’s a hairtie knotted into a tangle near the end of what is Freed’s usual ponytail, when he hasn’t been sleeping on it for three days running; Laxus sets to work on that first, frowning at the elastic as he tugs it free with as much care as he can manage. Freed stays quiet in front of him, his head ducked forward and shoulders angled in like he’s trying to occupy as little space as possible; it’s not until Laxus has the tie free and is setting it aside so he can reach for the brush instead that the other speaks, and even then it’s softly enough that Laxus wouldn’t be able to hear the words were he not so close to begin with.

“Thank you.” Freed’s head turns, very slightly, like he’s thinking about glancing over his shoulder but not quite completing the motion. “I really appreciate this.”

“Yeah.” Laxus pulls at the weight of Freed’s hair, smoothing it back over the other’s shoulders as best he can. It’s not very effective; the whole of it is a mess, the strands snarled around each other and dark with the damp of sweat all along Freed’s hairline. Laxus frowns. “How do I do this?”

“I can do it,” Freed says again, starting to turn in full this time. “If you have a brush I can--”

“No,” Laxus says. It’s not harsh -- he’s just stating the fact of his rejection -- but Freed falls silent as immediately as if Laxus had snapped at him. “Just tell me how.”

Freed clears his throat. “Bottom to top,” he says. “Slowly, so you work all the knots free. It’ll take a while.”

Laxus nods. “That’s fine.” He reaches for the brush and lifts up the ends of Freed’s hair so he can start to work on the knots. “I don’t have anything else planned.”

They fall silent for a long stretch of time. Laxus’s attention is wholly held by the work in front of him; he really does have to go slowly, there’s no way to wrench his way through the knots like he does with his own hair, not when there’s so much more to deal with as there is here. And Freed is perfectly silent and almost entirely still, after his last attempt at protest; he ducks his head forward like he’s offering his hair to Laxus’s attentions, and tips his shoulders in, and goes so utterly silent Laxus wonders distantly if he isn’t drowsing, if maybe he doesn’t have his eyes shut to appreciate the simple comfort of a brush running through his hair. Laxus thinks it might hurt, as he tugs the brush in his hand through another inch of knotted green; but if he’s being too rough Freed doesn’t say anything about it aloud, and the farther Laxus continues the easier his motion becomes. There’s something satisfying about running the brush through several inches of smoothed-out hair, to say nothing of the lessening of the tangles as Laxus works up, until finally Freed’s hair is lying in a smooth sheet all down the whole of his back, brushed out into a curtain of green that spans the whole of his shoulders and falls to puddle against the sheets around Laxus’s thighs. It’s radiant in the overhead light, it seems almost to glow under Laxus’s touch; even once the last of the knots are free he keeps drawing the brush through the strands, watching the weight of the locks slide back before falling forward and free as the brush slides farther down Freed’s hair. Laxus stares at it, his attention caught and held by the sheen of illumination that follows the draw of his fingers and the smooth slide of the brush, until it’s only Freed taking a breath that finally pulls his thoughts up and away from the fit of his fingers under the weight of Freed’s hair.

“That feels good.” It’s a simple statement, low enough that Laxus isn’t completely sure he’s meant to hear it; Freed tips his head to the side as he speaks, the motion enough to let the weight of his hair spill sideways and bare the curve of his neck for the light. Laxus’s gaze slides to the pale of the other’s skin, his attention fixing on the flex of muscle just against Freed’s neck; he keeps watching the curve there as his fingers slide through Freed’s hair, idle motion to go along with the sound of the other taking a breath. “It’s soothing.”

Laxus nods. “Good,” he says, and lifts his hand for another stroke through Freed’s hair, another careful sweep through the curtain of color in front of him. Freed tips his head farther to the side, as if he’s making an offering of himself with the motion, and Laxus sets the brush aside entirely so he can reach out with both hands at once to catch the smoothed weight of Freed’s hair up and off the back of the other’s neck. The weight falls like silk around his hands, this time, the knots undone like they were never there at all; Laxus catches the locks in his fingers, pulling Freed’s hair up into a vague approximation of a ponytail so he can reach in and under to fit his palm against the heat at the back of the other’s neck and pin the few remaining stray strands in place under his touch. Freed’s head tips forward, he makes a faint sound in the back of his throat, and Laxus slides his hand in closer to fit his fingertips against the strain at the other’s neck. Freed’s skin is hot under his touch, hotter even than the usual extra heat Laxus carries in his own veins. “You’re still warm.”

Freed hums a sound, softer than what he would usually offer, a little closer to a laugh than Laxus often gets from him. “I didn’t really expect brushing my hair would serve as an effective treatment for a fever.” He unfolds from the angle he’s slumped into over his knees, curls himself backwards by an inch until his back is just brushing Laxus’s chest. “It does feel much better, though.”

“I know,” Laxus says. He collects the fall of Freed’s hair in one hand, pulling it up and over the other’s shoulder so it can fall in a smooth spill over Freed’s chest before returning his touch to the back of the other’s neck, against the sweat-warm edge of Freed’s hairline where those few stray strands are still catching. Freed ducks his head as Laxus draws the last of his hair free of his skin to smooth it over his shoulder, surrendering the back of his neck to the other’s gaze as Laxus settles his hand against Freed’s shirt, and Laxus takes the invitation without hesitating, curling his fingers into steady support at the side of Freed’s neck so he can dig his thumb into the tension of pain-tight muscles just against the other’s shoulder. Freed makes a soft noise again, something so quiet Laxus wonders if it isn’t wholly involuntary or maybe carried more on the heat of his illness than anything else, and when he shifts it’s to relax backwards, to lean in against the support of Laxus’s chest behind him.

Laxus takes his time over Freed’s skin. It’s pleasant to have the other pressing so warm against him, even with his body blisteringly hot with the fever that has held him for the last few days; Freed fits between Laxus’s arms, his hair falling to a smooth curtain over his shoulder like a waterfall of color spreading out over the plain cut of his pajama shirt. If Laxus tips his head to look he can see the dark of Freed’s lashes casting shadows against the other’s cheeks, can see the part of Freed’s lips on his breathing as Laxus works out the tension from the shoulders under his hands. It’s a lot more interesting to watch than the motion of his hands, until Laxus finds himself caught somewhere in the pace of Freed’s breathing and the flush of color over the other’s cheeks while his hands smooth comfort into the strain of Freed’s neck, and down the curve into his shoulder, and over the first few inches of tension clinging to his spine. Freed relaxes further against Laxus with every breath, going so slack and heavy with comfort Laxus wonders if he isn’t falling asleep with the soothing contact against his aching body; and Laxus can feel himself going hotter, arousal rising unavoidably with the smooth give of Freed’s skin under his fingertips and the weight of the other’s body pressing so close to his own.

He lingers for long minutes as they are, even with his blood running hotter with every breath he takes and the tension at the front of his jeans straining obviously against the weight of Freed’s body against his. If Laxus turns his head he can smell Freed’s hair, with the faintly floral catch of his shampoo almost entirely dissolved to the sweeter, heavy scent of Freed himself, the heat of his skin and the salt of his sweat clinging to his skin and his clothes and the weight of his hair all three. Laxus wants to press his face in closer, wants to duck his head and fit his mouth to the dip of Freed’s throat and breathe in all the heat of the other’s body into his own, as if to absorb the electricity of Freed’s presence to heat the flare in his own veins. He wants to slide his fingers up into that smooth fall of Freed’s hair, and curl his hand to a fist to pull the other down to the sheets underneath him, to pin him to the soft of the bed and catch Freed’s thighs between the span of his own; but Freed’s skin is glowing with unhealthy heat, and the neckline of his shirt is damp with the feverish sweat that has gripped him for so many days, and it’s rest he needs, Laxus knows, whatever his own desires may be urging him towards. So:

“You should sleep,” Laxus says, the words coming somewhere between a statement of fact and a command, and he eases his hand away from Freed’s skin, replacing his hold carefully against the curve of the other’s shoulder to support Freed’s weight as Laxus shifts back in preparation to pull away over the gap of the bed. “I’ll bring in some ice for you.”

Freed’s breath catches, his head turns as he blinks himself back into focus. “You’re leaving?”

“You need to rest,” Laxus repeats, certain in the statement even if his instincts are protesting all the louder as Freed twists to look over his shoulder, to offer the flush across his cheeks and the part of his lips for Laxus’s consideration. “I’ll keep you up.”

“I don’t mind,” Freed says at once, reaching out to catch his fingers at the cuff of Laxus’s sleeve. The motion is clearly a grab, obviously intended to hold the other still, but the force of it breaks into uncertainty as he moves, until by the time his fingers touch Laxus the weight of them is more of a caress than anything else, barely tangling at the edge of the other’s clothes before sliding down the line of his arm instead. “I’m not tired right now.”

Laxus gusts a sigh. “Freed,” he says, and reaches to close his fingers around Freed’s wrist so he can draw the other’s hand away from his arm. “I need to go work off some tension. If you want me to come back after--”

“No,” Freed says. His hand twists in Laxus’s hold, his fingers curl in to brace against the other’s wrist. He ducks his head forward, his hair falling to curtain his eyes, but Laxus can still see the color that rises to stain across his cheeks. “That’s why I want you to stay.”

Laxus considers this for a moment: the press of Freed’s grip, weak but determined against his wrist, the duck of the other’s head, the flush of self-consciousness rising to his skin. And then he looks down, to the angle of the other’s hips half-under the weight of the blankets and partially obscured by the angle of Freed’s legs but with the fabric of the pajama pants too thin to really hide the evidence of Freed’s own response to Laxus’s touch.

“You should be resting,” Laxus says again, repeating his first point for good measure, but he doesn’t pull his arm free of Freed’s hold as he might, doesn’t continue moving away across the bed. “I’ll wear you out with anything else.”

Freed grimaces, his mouth setting on the beginnings of desperation as his chin ducks down farther, as his fingers tighten on Laxus’s wrist. “Please,” he says, his voice soft but only the warmer for the soft volume. “It’s been days, Laxus.”

“Yeah,” Laxus agrees. “You’ve been sick.”

Freed’s mouth shifts again. “You don’t have to kiss me,” he offers, tipping his head down farther as his voice goes lower. “If you’re worried about catching it. Or I could take a shower. I know I’m hardly at my best right now, but I really just--”

“Freed,” Laxus says, speaking loudly enough to stifle the speeding rush of the other’s words. Freed goes silent, closing his mouth around the excuses he’s offering for Laxus before the other has even given them voice, but he keeps his head ducked down, his chin tilted so far forward Laxus can barely see the set of his mouth and can’t see his eyes at all. It makes Laxus frown, creases frustration in against his forehead until when he reaches for Freed’s chin it’s with more force than he intended to bring to the motion.

“Look up” but he’s moving as fast as he speaks, pulling Freed’s head up to turn the other’s face to the light before Freed has a chance to react himself. Freed blinks, his lashes shifting dark over the wide-eyed uncertainty in his gaze; and that’s all Laxus pays attention to before he’s leaning in to crush the weight of his mouth against the other’s. Freed makes a startled sound against his lips, sounding as shocked by the contact as he always does, like he’s never really sure Laxus will want to kiss him again until it happens; but Laxus is sure, and Laxus doesn’t hesitate. He pulls loose of Freed’s hold on his wrist, jerking his arm free with casual unconcern so he can reach out instead, so he can brace his hold at the angle of the other’s shoulder to hold him steady while Laxus presses in against him to tip Freed back down over the sheets of the bed, kissing him with enough force to bear the other back all at once were it not for his hold to ease the descent. Freed’s hand catches at Laxus’s shirt, fingers come out to curl around the back of the other’s neck; and by the time Laxus has him pinned down against the sheets of the bed, Freed’s cheeks are flushed and his breathing is catching with more than just the feverish heat Laxus can feel at his lips and can taste against the inside of his mouth.

“It’s not that I haven’t been interested,” Laxus says. “I’m _always_ ready to have you” and that’s all he has patience for before he has to kiss Freed again, has to come back in to taste against the soft curve of familiar lips left untouched for the last span of days. Freed’s hotter than he should be, flushed with unhealthy heat that eases some of Laxus’s arousal into worry; but he’s responsive, too, arching up off the bed like he’s trying to press himself to Laxus over him while the other is still sliding a hand down to push at his pajama pants, and however tiring this may prove to be Laxus thinks the relief, at least, should prove a comfort for some of the strain in Freed’s body under his.

“You’ll rest after this,” he orders as he pulls away long enough to push Freed’s pants off his hips and down his legs to free pale skin from the burden of the fabric. Freed draws his knees up to help, breathing hard enough that Laxus can hear the catch of the other’s inhales as he pulls Freed’s clothes off his body to toss over the edge of the bed to the floor. Freed’s hard before Laxus has even touched him, his cock angling towards his stomach with all the aching heat Laxus can feel crackling so electric through his own veins; the flushed dark of his arousal stands in stark relief to the pale of his stomach, the angle of his hips, the trembling tension in his thighs under Laxus’s gaze. Laxus growls satisfaction at the sight -- it’s always gratifying to see how hard Freed is for him, how easily he can stir desire into the other’s veins -- and he’s reaching out to curl his fingers around the delicate skin of the other’s length, to set the calluses of long-forgotten fights in against Freed’s cock and draw friction up over the curve of his shaft. “So you can get better.”

Freed’s spine arches, his whole body cresting up to meet Laxus’s touch. His hand at the back of the other’s neck tightens, his fingers digging in hard against the support of the other over him. “ _Ah_. Yes, Laxus.”

“Good,” Laxus says, and then he leans back in to catch the sound of Freed’s response against his mouth as he strokes up over him. Freed doesn’t protest this at all; he’s parting his lips as soon as Laxus’s mouth touches his, giving up the heat of his body for Laxus to taste and lick into as easily as he trembles into desire under the other’s touch, like he’s coming alive to the electricity of Laxus’s hands at his skin. It’s satisfying all by itself, the way it always is, to have Freed prove so instantly responsive, so utterly pliant; and then there’s the way Laxus can feel the other’s arousal hot beneath his touch, can feel the twitching pulse of heat against his palm with every stroke he takes. Freed’s clutching at his shirt, pulling at the back of Laxus’s neck as if to hold him closer, and under his hand Laxus can feel the other’s cock swelling hotter, hardening into the inevitability of pleasure from just a few casual strokes of his grip. At another time, Laxus thinks, he might pull Freed into pleasure just like this, just for the gratification of how little it takes, of how quickly Freed comes apart for him for just a touch, for a few brief minutes of friction; but Freed’s been sick for days, and Laxus has never been good at depriving himself of what he wants. Laxus can feel himself going hotter with every sound Freed makes into his mouth, can feel his cock pressing harder to the front of his jeans with every shudder that runs through the form under his own, and in the end he pulls away after a very few minutes, leaving Freed to gasp for air against the bed while Laxus lets his hold go and leans over to reach for the table alongside the bed instead.

“Take your shirt off,” he suggests as he closes his hold around the smooth of the bottle and rocks back over his knees so he can open the lid and slick his fingers with experienced efficiency. Freed takes a moment to catch his breath, and another to push himself upright; he’s still working to tug his shirt up and over his head when Laxus slides back by a few inches so he can reach down and between the line of Freed’s thighs. Freed shudders when Laxus touches him, whimpering something startled and hot in his throat as the other’s fingers trace across his skin, and Laxus reaches for the other’s hip to brace a hold against Freed’s waist as his touch finds the tension of the other’s entrance. Slick skin drags across tight heat as Laxus feels his way against familiar strain; and then Freed draws his shirt free of his hair, and Laxus pushes, and his touch sinks into Freed’s body at the same time the other’s lashes flutter in helpless surrender to the friction.

“ _Oh_ ,” Freed gasps, “ _Laxus_.”

“Freed,” Laxus says, his response more in answer to Freed’s reaction than holding any coherency of its own; and he moves without hesitating, sliding his touch back before thrusting back in to press farther into Freed’s body, to urge reflexive strain into the softer give of surrender under the press of his touch. Freed falls back against the pillows below him, his eyes shut, his lips part; Laxus can see the strain of his touch rippling through the other’s body as he moves into him, can see the catch of Freed’s breathing in his chest and the reflexive tension that pulls against the other’s shoulders and the curve of his neck. At Freed’s shoulder the weight of his hair slides over itself, slipping free to fall across the sheets and Freed’s body alike; Laxus lifts his hand from the other’s hip to reach out instead, to catch a handful of the dark strands in his fingers and hold them up to the light.

“You’re so damn sexy,” Laxus says, and means it. It’s true all the time, regardless of what Freed is wearing or where they are; but there’s a particular accuracy to it right now, with the other lying breathless and flushed in front of him, his hair spilling loose over his skin and his eyes heavy-lidded with the force of Laxus working into him. Laxus can feel his patience, short at the best of times, giving way to inevitable heat; he draws his hand back to press another finger alongside the first, to urge Freed’s body open for him. “I’ve been wanting you for days.”

“Oh,” Freed gasps. His lashes are fluttering, his gaze too hazy for Laxus to hold eye contact; when he turns his head his hair slides with the motion, his lips part on the gasp of air he takes. His thighs are trembling, Laxus can see; he lets Freed’s hair slide through his fingers and reaches down to press his palm to the shudder of motion, to feel the way the muscle jumps under his touch with every forward drive of his fingers. “Laxus, I...you can have me any time.”

“I know,” Laxus says, and draws his touch free, satisfied with the give of Freed’s body under his touch. Freed gasps a breath as Laxus’s fingers draw out of him and turns his head to blink up at the other; but Laxus doesn’t wait for the other to speak, doesn’t wait for eye contact. He rocks back instead, catching at the hem of his shirt to strip it up over his head and cast it aside in one easy motion, and then he’s ducking his head to look down at the front of his jeans so he can push the button free and drag the zipper down with the same efficient speed. “You needed to rest. I want you to get better.”

“I will,” Freed says, lifting his arms as Laxus leans in over him to slide his fingers over the other’s shoulders, to brace himself against the back of the other’s neck. His head is tipped back, his gaze hazy and dark, but his focus is fixed on Laxus’s face, even if he looks heat-dazed by fever and desire in equal parts. “I’ll sleep later.”

“I know you will,” Laxus says, and then he looks down, to the open angle of Freed’s wide-spread thighs and the undone front of his own pants. He braces himself over the other’s shoulder, his fingers spread wide against the sheets to hold himself steady one-handed as he reaches down with the other to push his clothes off his hips, enough to free the heavy heat of his cock for the bracing grip of his hand. Freed makes a sound as Laxus draws himself free, a gust of an exhale that unfolds into a moan of anticipation in his chest, but Laxus doesn’t look up to see the way Freed is staring at him or to appreciate the damp part of the other’s lips on that sound. He’s too impatient, too close to what he’s been craving for days, and he’s moving instead, lowering his weight to fit the span of his hips between Freed’s knees and guide the dark-flushed head of his cock to the wet heat of the other’s entrance. Freed takes a breath, drawing hard enough at the air that Laxus can hear the catch of it in the other’s chest, and Laxus thrusts forward at once, letting the force of his motion sink his cock far into the heat of the other’s body. Freed’s fingers tighten at the back of his neck, Freed’s newfound air rushes out of his lungs at once, and Laxus sets his other hand flat on the bed over Freed’s shoulder and braces himself for the rhythmic movement he sets with the drive of his cock into Freed beneath him.

The action is familiar, Laxus’s motions made simple by the joint effect of instinct and experience on his body. Freed is hot under him, his body tensing and easing with a rhythm to match the forward stroke and backwards drag of Laxus over and into him; his hands are pressing close against Laxus’s bare shoulders, his fingers tightening against the other’s skin like he’s trying to brace himself still with just the traction of his fingertips. His gaze is hazy, his eyes unfocused; Laxus can see the drift of Freed’s attention over his face, can watch the other’s focus skip from his hair to his mouth to his eyes, their gazes meeting for a moment before Freed drifts away again, his attention melting into whatever half-delirious haze he has found for himself. His hair is loose under him, spilling to a green curtain all across the sheets like a backdrop perfectly designed for the pale of his skin; Laxus can catch his fingers in it if he wants, can draw his touch through the silky strands and feel the way they slide smooth across his palm. And under him Freed is arching up, around him Freed’s body is working in involuntary tremors of tension, and Laxus can feel the heat of days of deprivation building with uncanny speed, arousal spiking up his spine with no regard for any kind of stamina. It hardly matters anyway, he thinks; Freed is panting for air, his cock curving hot between them as slick heat collects at the head to drip onto his stomach, and Laxus knows Freed well enough by now to know how to read the signs of impending orgasm from the other’s expression.

“Freed,” he says, feeling his voice rumble in the depths of his chest, the sound of it catching to tangle around the rhythmic motion of his hips, the flex of his legs and tension in his stomach as he thrusts forward, as he presses Freed’s thighs wider apart with each forward motion he takes. “Look at me.”

“I am,” Freed says; but he blinks anyway, visibly struggling to shake the heat haze from his glazed stare so he can meet Laxus’s gaze. His lashes are dark, his cheeks stained crimson; his breathing feels like fire against Laxus’s chest, the usual heat from his lungs made hotter by the lingering effect of the fever still clinging to him.

“Like that,” Laxus says; and he lifts a hand from bracing at the bed to slide against Freed’s cheek instead, to smooth the weight of the other’s hair back from his face and turn his features up towards the light. Freed gasps an inhale as Laxus touches him, his lashes fluttering with the threat of incoherence; but he opens his eyes again, bringing himself into focus on Laxus over him even if his expression is going slack with the pleasure Laxus can feel building in the strain of the other’s body around him. “Freed. Are you going to come?”

“Oh,” Freed says, and his body flexes tight for a moment, his thighs pressing hard against Laxus’s hips for a heartbeat of time as his lips part and his fingers clench at the other’s neck. “I.”

“I want to see you come,” Laxus tells him.

Freed blinks hard, his eyes going dark with surrender even before he gives voice to it. “Yes.”

“Like this,” Laxus tells him; and then, as Freed shudders with a surge of tension, “Relax,” the word steady and sure on his lips. “Don’t reach for it.”

Freed gasps a breath. “What?”

“Don’t try for it,” Laxus says. “Just relax.” He leans harder on his hand against the bed, steadies his knees at the mattress so he can move faster, can press deeper. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Oh god,” Freed says, and he shuts his eyes but Laxus doesn’t comment on it, not when Freed is biting at his lip and coloring scarlet all over his face. “Laxus.”

“I’ll make you come,” Laxus promises, and he’s moving deeper, taking long, smooth strokes that bring he and Freed flush against each other with each forward thrust. “All you should do is relax.”

“Yes,” Freed says; but he’s still trembling with tension, Laxus can feel the strain in the other’s body against his hips, in the clutch of the fingers against the back of his neck and the gasp of Freed’s breathing coming fast in his chest. Laxus keeps moving, keeps rocking forward with focused determination, and it’s as Freed lets a breath of air go in a gasp of effort that Laxus reaches down to curl his fingers into a grip around the heat of Freed’s cock between them.

“ _Oh_ ,” Freed gasps, his eyes opening wide as his whole body arches up at once, and Laxus keeps moving, not so much as hesitating over the spasm of reaction that rushes through Freed under him.

“Relax,” he says again, with force enough to underscore the words with sincerity, and he strokes up over Freed’s length, falling into rhythm with the forward motion of his hips without even thinking of it. Freed gasps under him, his face flushing darker even than it was, and Laxus fixes his attention on the other’s features, pins his focus to the pleasure he can see clear in every line of Freed’s face, in every heat-heavy flutter of the other’s lashes. “Trust me, Freed.”

Freed’s lashes dip, his gaze slides out-of-focus. “I...I do.”

“Relax,” Laxus repeats; and under him Freed gasps an inhale, and shudders with the exhale, and goes heavy over the sheets, his whole body easing into complete surrender over the mattress. Laxus can feel the power of it surge through his fingertips, can feel it crackle hot in his veins; and he keeps moving, working Freed towards pleasure as the other gasps huge, deep lungfuls of air that Laxus can feel hot against his skin. “I’ve got you.”

“Laxus,” Freed says, but there’s nothing to follow the name; it’s just a breath, a gasping exhale that shudders through the whole of the other’s body. His legs tense for a moment, his thighs press hard against Laxus’s jeans; and then he relaxes again, panting through what is clearly a conscious effort of will. “ _Ah_.”

“Good,” Laxus says, the praise simple and straightforward at his lips, and he keeps moving, keeps staring at Freed’s face, more invested in pinning down the other’s pleasure than in even the rising tide of desire in his own veins. Freed keeps tensing, his body tightening on the reflexive habit of experience and then easing, giving way to Laxus’s order before the other can reiterate it. The shudders come closer together and shorter in duration, like they’re running themselves out entirely, until finally Freed’s just trembling against the bed, his body slack at the sheets but thrumming with tension Laxus can feel winding tighter with every stroke he takes over the other’s length.

“Freed,” Laxus says, and he’s leaning in without thinking of it, ducking closer until his forehead is almost touching Freed’s, until his mouth is nearly catching the breath from Freed’s lips. “Open your eyes. I want to see you.” Freed makes a sound against Laxus’s mouth, something soft and hot and shaky; but his lashes lift anyway, his gaze drifting up and over Laxus’s face in obedience to the other’s demand. His mouth is open, his face flushed; his eyes are unfocused, he looks like he’s coming apart with every jolt of motion Laxus takes into him. He blinks once, his lashes dipping over the shadow of his eyes; and then again, harder this time, as his gaze focuses on something far in the distance, like he’s seeing straight through Laxus instead of actually looking at the face over him.

“Oh,” he gasps; and again, as his eyes widen, as his expression comes open on what looks almost like surprise, almost like panic, but too hot and desperate to be either. “ _Oh_ , god, _Laxus_.”

“Yeah,” Laxus says, “Freed”: and Freed’s head tips back, his throat flexes on the rush of his exhale, and the tremor in his body tightens into a full-body spasm that Laxus can feel work around him like Freed’s orgasm is trying to pull his own from him as well. Laxus groans far in the back of his throat, his hips snapping forward with reflexive force; but Freed is moaning loud enough to more than drown him out, his breathing cracking and breaking to wail in the back of his throat as he shudders into pleasure around Laxus inside him. His cock jerks, spilling wet over Laxus’s grip and Freed’s own stomach; but more than that his entire body is tensing with each rush of pleasure, as if his deliberate surrender was enough to leave him utterly open for the sensation coursing through him to arch him against the bed, to clutch his fingers at Laxus’s neck. Laxus can watch each pulse of heat run through the other, can track the sensation as it ripples up and through the whole of Freed’s body laid out before him; and he’s moving harder, increasing the pace of his driving trusts without looking away from the color staining Freed’s cheeks or the heat panting at his lips.

“God,” Laxus says, his voice dropping down into the depth of his chest where he can feel it purring against the inside of his ribs. “ _Freed_.” His hips come forward, his cock slides deep into Freed beneath him; and Freed tenses against him with all the reflexive force of his orgasm, and Laxus groans and comes, pressing as close to the heat of the other’s body as he can get himself. His orgasm runs through him in a single rush of energy, blinding his vision for a moment as his cock pulses with the surge of pleasure; and then the first edge eases, and Laxus huffs an exhale and lets himself lean forward and down atop Freed before him.

He stays like that for a long moment, letting his breathing ease back into calm as the flush of arousal on his skin cools to damp sweat and the wet between his body and Freed’s dries to cling sticky to them both. It’s only when he starts to feel Freed as fever-radiant again and remembers the other’s illness that he stirs himself enough to push up and off Freed under him.

Freed’s eyes are shut, when Laxus looks down at him again. His cheeks are still flushed with heat, his breathing is still catching fast on the lingering aftereffects of pleasure; underneath them his hair is spread across the sheets, the strands starting to tangle again into something that will require another pass with the brush before they lie smooth once more. But his lips are curving up at the corners, his whole expression is relaxed into the languid comfort of satisfaction, and even with his skin flushed dark with too-much heat Laxus doesn’t want to look away from the delicate lines of the other’s face. He stares for a long while, seconds slipping unmeasured while his focus traces over the lines of Freed’s expression; and then Freed stirs, and blinks his eyes open, and looks up at Laxus leaning in over him.

“Laxus,” he says, his voice softer and a little slower than usual, like he’s thinking over the words. “Is everything alright?”

Laxus nods. “Fine,” he says, and reaches out to press his fingers into Freed’s hair to urge the weight of it back behind the other’s ear. “Your hair’s a mess again.”

Freed’s mouth curves up at the corner, his head tips in against Laxus’s touch in a motion as fluid as it is unthinking. “It’s not a problem,” he says as his lashes dip down over the dazed heat in his eyes. “I’ll brush it out later.”

“No,” Laxus says, and lets his hand slide down to curl against the side of Freed’s neck so he can press the weight of his palm against the flush on the other’s skin. “I’ll do it for you.”

Freed’s lashes flutter. “You don’t have to,” he says.

“I didn’t say I had to,” Laxus tells him. “I will.” He wonders briefly if Freed will protest, if he’ll color into embarrassment and attempt the futile effort of talking Laxus out of his decision; but Freed’s too tired, maybe, or perhaps he hears the certainty in Laxus’s voice, because all he does instead is smile wider, and turn his head against the pillow, and let Laxus’s hand fit the closer against the side of his neck.

It’s always satisfying, Laxus thinks, to know that all he needs to do to win Freed’s surrender is to ask for it.


End file.
